


The Prayer of Serenity

by NorthernStar



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aramis is Easy, Backstory, But for Good Reason, Canon Typical Violence, Flashbacks, Friendship, Injured Porthos, Loyalty, Multi, Past Hurts, Possibly Dubious Consent, Young Aramis, coming to terms, discussion of child abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-18 01:08:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1409368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthernStar/pseuds/NorthernStar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos told D'Artagnan:<br/><i>“Aramis will one day understand why he should despise the bishop and his mistress but in all the years since Lebourne he never has.”</i></p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>  <i>“You asked me a question, all those years ago.”  Aramis finally said.  “At Lebourne.  About Jacques.”<br/> <br/>Athos had chosen his words well for they had dug deep over the months that followed, like a thorn working its way beneath his skin, and as hard as he had tried to dismiss them, he could not.</i></p><p>
  <i>They had rarely spoken of Lebourne since then.</i>
</p><p>But on the journey to Longueville and back, he will find an answer...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ...Accept the Things I Cannot Change...

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a couple of kinkmeme prompts that met in my head, had ugly, _ugly_ bastard babies and forced me to feed them.

 

Aramis stroked the Arabian stallion’s neck, admiring the firm muscles beneath its sleek black hide. It was a magnificent animal, worthy of the King.

He heard movement behind him and turned, expecting to see Porthos. But it was D’Artagnan. Something heavy settled on his chest that might have been disappointment.

D’Artagnan stopped just inside the doorway, his face cast into shadow, but Aramis could read the tension in his narrow form nonetheless.

He smiled in greeting. “One day, I shall own a horse as fine as this.” He told him.

The young man came forward, stepping into the puddle of dull yellowed light thrown out by the single lamp hanging from the stable rafters. He wore an expression of confused concern. It was obvious that he knew something was wrong, he just didn’t understand what.

Aramis drew a deep breath. In simpler times, he too did not understand. Not anymore.

“You know the Bishop and his mistress.” D’Artagnan said. It was not a question.

“I will ride on the Rue de St Martin, where everyone can see.” He stroked the horse’s mane. “On the first day of spring, when the light -”

“Aramis.” There was no heat in D’Artagnan’s voice. No sound of force. If he wished to ignore the unspoken offer of friendship and support and continue talking about the horse, D’Artagnan would respect that.

Aramis sighed. “I knew them, yes.” He admitted. “I was a child. Eight perhaps, or nine. No older.” The horse nudged him with his nose and he resumed smoothing the creature’s coat. “My mother and father had intended me for the church.”

He watched the play of mirth on the young man’s lips.

“Do not laugh. I was a studious and pious boy –,” this merely increased the smile on D’Artagnan’s face. “And soon I had secured the patronage of first our parish priest and then of Monsignor Corneille.” He patted the horse and the firm muscles jumped beneath his palm. “Corneille was an attentive patron and took a personal interest in my instruction. I believe I upset him greatly when I did not enter the seminary as planned.” He offered D’Artagnan a smile. “This assignment means I will at last have the opportunity to apologise.”

Enlightenment crossed D’Artagnan’s face. “Corneille is –”

“The Bishop? Yes.” He replied. “He was an ambitious man even then.”

“And his mistress?”

“Marie Anna Joelle de la Fontanne.” Aramis told him. “He has loved her all these years.”

The young man’s surprise was evident, but while a man keeping the same mistress into her matron years as if she were a wife was rare, it was not unheard of. And Marie had been so…

Aramis fell silent.

“And?” D’Artagnan finally prompted.

Footsteps cut off any chance of a reply, for which Aramis was relieved. It saved him from offending his friend by not offering one.

Athos appeared in the doorway. “Porthos is a few cards away from being exposed as a cheat.” He said. “We may need your help.”

Both Aramis and D’Artagnan broke into grins and followed Athos out of the stables.

 

-o0o-

 

D’Artagnan leaned over Aramis’ shoulder as the musketeer tended to Porthos. Their friend sat in the ruins of the gambling table that had broken his fall during the fight, his head still pouring blood, despite the application of numerous cloths. While he was now conscious, he really didn’t seem all that aware. Worse still, one of the black dots in his eyes was wide enough to almost obliterate the brown while the other was the size of a pin head.

“Porthos cannot ride like this.” Aramis said, standing up. “He needs to rest. We must stay the night.”

Athos stood a few metres away and this distance, while typical of him, seemed wider now. D’Artagnan knew he was still angry with Aramis over the bishop and he didn’t understand why.

“In case it has escaped your notice,” Athos told him, “Porthos gambled away what little coin we had.”

“And no doubt you drank away the rest.” Aramis spoke without rancour. He stood up, wiping his blood stained hands on a dirty rag. “One room should suffice. Porthos must sleep in a bed of course but I am sure you will both be comfortable enough upon the floor.”

“And where will you sleep?” D’Artagnan asked.

Aramis threw him his most charming smile. “Ways and means, gentleman.” He looked over at the Innkeeper’s wife. The woman had been admiring the Musketeers since they arrived, Aramis in particular, and D’Artagnan realised his intent: a seduction to secure them a room.

Athos stared at Aramis, eyes tight and full of flint. D’Artagnan could feel the tension of the unspoken argument grating against his nerves as if his two friends were yelling at each other. He had a feeling that it might improve matters if they did.

“You must do what you feel is right.” Athos eventually said. His tone was even. It was as close to backing down as he would ever get.

He turned away and went to the bar. Perhaps, D’Artagnan thought, he had a few deniers left for the cheapest, nastiest ale or perhaps it was in the hope that the Innkeeper’s wife would prove to be very grateful indeed.

Or perhaps, he did so out of habit.

Aramis watched him for a long moment then turned to D’Artagnan. “Porthos should sleep the night.” He told him. “Check on him at least once, change the bandage if you need to, and call me if you are worried.”

 

-o0o-

 

A few hours later, D’Artagnan lay on the hard, dirty wood floor of their single procured room. He had fallen asleep fairly quickly, despite the discomfort, only to be woken by Athos stumbling in and falling into a drunken slumber as soon as he dropped onto the floor. Sleep after that had eluded him.

His mind kept bringing him back to the tension between the Musketeers. It seemed to have come from nowhere. The day had begun as normal. Fencing, laughter, camaraderie…

And then Treville had called them in and given them an escort assignment. They were to ride out to Longueville and accompany the bishop of that county and his…companion back to Paris. Athos had pointed out that the Red Guards were more suited to the job but Treville had responded that the Bishop Corneille had requested them personally. He had made a point of looking directly at Aramis.

D’Artagnan had been aware of the musketeers tensing at the name.

“We will ride out directly.” Athos had said stiffly.

They had begun to file out of Treville’s office when the captain called out, “Aramis, a moment of your time…”

What they spoke about, D’Artagnan didn’t know but both Porthos and Athos looked troubled by the private audience.

The young man sighed into the darkness. It felt like the Musketeers had always been a part of his life and yet, it was all too obvious so many times that he really didn’t know them at all.

After a long while, D’Artagnan decided it was time to follow Aramis’ instruction and got to his feet, wincing as his muscles protested at their ill treatment. He went to the bed and leaned over Porthos. To his surprise, he found the man was awake.

Porthos shifted until he was almost sitting up. “You should roll him over on to his front.” He said and nodded towards Athos.

“I already have a patient.” He told him as he removed the bandage around his friend’s head.

Porthos made a grunting sound that might have been mirth. “My head feels worse than his will come morning, but I’m fine.”

D’Artagnan checked Porthos’ head, which gave lie to his words. The gash to his scalp had scabbed and great clumps of hair were stuck together with dried blood. But at least the vacant look in Porthos’ eyes had gone and the black dots in the centre of the brown appeared normal now.

He applied a fresh bandage and when he was satisfied that Porthos was all right, D’Artagnan got up and knelt down next to Athos. The man’s heavy, drunken breathing rattled softly at the back of his throat. D’Artagnan got a grip on his friend and rolled him over. Athos flopped heavily and his mouth drooled but the rattle ceased.

“He was angry about the bishop.”

Porthos snorted. “He’s angry _at_ the bishop.” He corrected and then cursed himself softly, under his breath, as if he was annoyed with himself for giving that away.

D’Artagnan looked back at Porthos. “Why?”

“God, my head aches!” Porthos pressed his palm against his eyes. “Even the moonlight hurts.”

D’Artagnan wondered if that was merely evasion of his question or if this was something he should worry about and call Aramis for. But from his position next to Athos, who had not properly closed the door before collapsing, he could hear the faint sounds of a woman in the throes of pleasure and he didn’t dare risk her wrath for what was probably nothing.

“You don’t share his anger.”

“I do.” There was sharp edge to the words. Then he sighed. “I just hide it better.”

D’Artagnan frowned. “Aramis isn’t angry.”

“Aramis-” Porthos stopped himself as suddenly as he’d begun. The sharp way he’d spoken their friend’s name hinted at the fury he was concealing. “Aramis will one day understand why he should despise the bishop and his mistress but in all the years since Lebourne he never has.”

The young man stood up. “What happened at Lebourne?”

“You should get some sleep.” Porthos said and rolled over on his side, facing away from D’Artagnan, an entirely unsubtle hint that the conversation was ended.

D’Artagnan stared at the man’s back for a long moment before returning to the bedroll on the floor and lying down. He thought of Aramis in the stables, the stillness in his form and the weight of his years in his eyes…

“You’re wrong.” D’Artagnan said into the darkness. “I think he does understand.”

There was rustling from the bed and the young man looked up to see Porthos sitting up. “If that’s so, then when we get to Longueville,” he said with venom, “I look forward to Aramis gutting them both like fish.”

 

-o0o-

 

At first light, D’Artagnan made his way out to the well. It was behind the inn, sheltered by trees and the curve of the rocks.

Aramis was already there, stripped to waist and dripping with water. D’Artagnan could see the red marks of nails on his back and sides. He watched as his friend hauled up another bucketful and tipped it directly over his head. It had to have been ice cold.

D’Artagnan stepped to his side.

“How’s Porthos?” Aramis asked as he began to pull up more water.

“Still sleeping.” He told him. “But we spoke last night and he was fine.”

“Good. We should leave within the hour.”

Aramis put the lip of bucket against his throat with one hand and scrubbed with the other as he poured the water over himself. This close D’Artagnan could see the fine hairs on his friend’s skin stand up in a hopeless effort to keep him warm. He could also see marks of passion marring the musketeer’s neck.

Something jarred inside him and D’Artagnan found himself gambling on a lie. “Porthos told me about Lebourne.”

The effect was immediate. Aramis froze for a second. And then at length, he relaxed. “No he didn’t.” He sounded absolutely certain as he picked up his shirt. “You’re not angry enough.”

 

-o0o-

 

Aramis loaded up his horse, lost in thought. He wondered who had mentioned Lebourne to D’Artagnan and what the young man had been told.

Lebourne…

So long ago now, that hunting party, that evening campfire… He had been no older than D’Artagnan at the time and Athos and Porthos were merely good friends, rather than the brothers he felt them to be today. There had been nine Musketeers, including himself around that campfire, Marsac too, young and full of laughter, although Aramis hadn’t known him well then. Philippe and Frederic, who had both died at Savoy, Jean and Marcel, good men he was still proud to call friends and Andre…

Andre and his stupid boasts…

When that callous and sometimes spiteful youth bragged of first bedding a woman at the tender age of 14, Aramis had joined in the chorus of lascivious laughter that provoked. Andre had accepted it all with pride, enjoying their admiration. It was probably his own youthful desire to wipe the smirk off Andre’s face that drove him to his own admittance.

-o-

**Lebourne, 1625**

“I was nine when I first bedded a woman.” Aramis said as he settled back against the tree, allowing a self-satisfied smile to settle on his face.

Andre put his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, clearly sceptical. “How old was this ‘woman?’” He asked. “Playing the-nun-and-the-priest with nine-year-old girls doesn’t count.”

“A gentleman would never ask a lady her age.” Aramis replied. “But I believe she was five and twenty.”

There was a ripple of laughter and several lurid cheers from all the Musketeers save three: Philippe, Athos and Porthos.

Frederic and Andre immediately began pressing him for details. He refused their requests to describe her beauty because he was gentleman but he gave the rest willingly. How Monsignor Corneille had impressed on him the importance of Genesis 38:10 – he didn’t mention that this conversation had begun because the Monsignor had caught him masturbating – and taken him to his mistress, Marie, who had gently, ardently, over many nights, showed him how to please a woman. He didn’t add that the Monsignor would watch, to make sure he got it right, and sometimes he would help as well…

Frederic laughed dirtily and declared his intention to find a Monsignor to sponsor him as soon as they got back to the garrison if that was the kind of instruction the church was giving now. Almost all of the other Musketeers roared with laughter at this and Marcel, who was sitting at Aramis’ left, smacked the young man on the shoulder as if proud of his conquest.

“Aramis, my friend,” Marcel said, “I could easily learn to hate you!”

“Indeed,” Jean yelled out. “You have uncommon good luck.”

The man sitting at his right, Philippe, looked uncomfortable amid all the laughter. Aramis could see him in his peripheral vision. It drew his attention and from him to Athos and Porthos, two men he greatly admired, both stoic and watchful.

He looked questioningly at them and was parting his lips to ask what was wrong when Athos abruptly got to his feet. He walked directly passed Aramis, tension coiling in every motion until the darkness swallowed him up.

“Athos!” Philippe called.

“Let him go.” Andre said and cast his words loudly at Athos’ back. “Just because he has no interest in women doesn’t mean we shouldn’t!”

Marcel said something in reply but Aramis didn’t really hear what it was, too caught up in confusion at his friend’s actions. The fire cracked loudly, drawing Aramis’ attention back into the group. He turned back to the fire and found Porthos staring at him through the flames. His face was lit by firelight, dark eyes full of something that looked like…pity. He felt himself frowning. Why would Porthos pity him?

“You were nine.” Porthos said, as if answering Aramis’ thought. There was an undercurrent of anger in his voice.

Andre clapped him on the shoulder, accepting Porthos’ words with a chuckle. “A good age, I grant you, but not incredible. I have heard of younger…”

The words helped to draw Aramis back into the laughter, but he remained aware of Porthos watching him sadly long into the night.

In the morning, Athos returned to the camp, striding purposefully through his comrades, coming to stand at Aramis’ shoulder as he loaded his horse.

“You’re angry.” Aramis said when the man offered no greeting. He continued to work. “I do not understand why. The others say it is because you hate woman.” He turned to face him. “I know you better than that.”

Athos’ face was unmoving. “One question: the new stable boy, Jacques, who is almost nine and brings you apples from his father’s tree because he knows you like them. If you knew someone had taken him into their bed, how would that make you feel?”

-o-

Athos had chosen his words well for they had dug deep over the months that followed, like a thorn working its way beneath his skin, and as hard as he had tried to dismiss them, he could not.

They had rarely spoken of Lebourne since then.

Aramis had kept his distance from them for a while after that – with Athos that had been easy, Porthos much less so, who at times had resembled a dog with bone over the matter – but the tenuous bond they’d made before that night by the campfire proved to be strong and over the course of their duty, fighting side by side, it pulled them back together. He might almost have convinced himself that it was forgotten.

But it wasn’t.

And now, the closer they drew to Longueville, the less it could be avoided.

 

-o0o-

 

Athos rode a little ahead of D’Artagnan and Porthos, with Aramis at his side. The younger man had made a point of riding beside him but had yet to speak. It wasn’t often that Aramis was lost for words and Athos berated that small part of himself that enjoyed it.

“You asked me a question, all those years ago.” Aramis finally said. “At Lebourne. About Jacques.”

Athos didn’t look at him. He remembered. “Do you have an answer?”

“Not yet.”

Athos turned sharply in his saddle then but found Aramis staring into the horizon.

They rode on in silence for many long and dusty and boring miles until they stopped by a stream to water the horses and eat. Aramis yawned as he dismounted and quickly apologised, admitting with an amused grin that he didn’t get a lot of sleep.

The careless admittance grated against Athos’ nerves as he got off of his own horse. “You see nothing wrong in the trade that you made last night.”

“Hardly trade.” Aramis replied. “It was merely…” He smiled at his own tact. “…a mutually beneficial evening.”

“We needed a bed for the night so you seduced an old and somewhat ugly innkeeper’s wife to get us one.” Athos replied. “Or would you like to tell me that you would have slept with her by choice?”

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, my friend.” He told him, taking the reins of Porthos horse so that his injured friend could unseat carefully. “And I found Madame Picard to be quite beautiful in her own way.”

Athos made a noise of frustration, grabbed the reins of his horse and led the animal to the stream to drink.

“This is really about Corneille.” Aramis stated. There was, finally, some anger in his voice. But not aimed at the right person. “About what I told you at Lebourne?”

“It is about both.” Athos said. “If you cannot see the connection, you are a fool!”

“I do not understand why you’re angry.”

Athos pushed him back against his horse’s flank. “And I cannot understand why you’re not!”

Aramis shoved his friend away, hand finding its way to his sword. His pulled the blade about 6 inches out of its scabbard before pushing it back and walking off.

“Aramis!” Porthos called and then turned back to Athos. “Did you have to make him sound like a whore?”

He glared at Porthos. “Much as I’d like, I cannot change what it was.”

 

-o0o-

 

“Here.” Porthos’ voice came from behind Aramis.

He didn’t look around. “Are you angry at me as well?”

“No.” He replied. “And neither is Athos.” He paused. “And I know you know that.”

Yes, he did.

“Here.” Porthos repeated.

Aramis turned. Porthos stood behind him, holding out a chunk of bread and a thick slice of meat.

Aramis ignored it. “I should change your bandage.”

“Eat first.” Porthos told him and pushed it into his hands. “You missed breakfast.”

“I can do both.” He replied and took a mouthful of bread. He motioned for Porthos to sit and then chewed silently as he tended to his friend, carefully removing the dirty bandage.

“For what it’s worth, I’m grateful.” Porthos said, “for last night.”

“We seek out patronesses all the time.” Aramis sighed. “This was not so different.”

“I know.”

Aramis inspected the gash. “I cannot change who I am.”

“The romantic hero type?” Porthos’ voice was a touch too mocking.

“I thought you said you were not angry.”

Porthos looked up at him. “I’m _angry_ at Corneille and at his mistress for taking a small boy and teaching him that the only worth he truly has is in bed.” Porthos said. “I’m _angry_ that they hurt you and that you don’t even realise it.” Aramis bowed his head. “I am not angry at you.”

Aramis paused, his fingers stilling against Porthos’ scalp. “That is not how it was.” He told him and resumed his work. “I know you and Athos think that I was too young to sleep with a woman.  But you’re wrong. And many woman since have had good reason to thank Marie for everything she taught me.”

He believed that still and he _had_ loved them all in his own way, even old and somewhat ugly innkeeper’s wives. He had much to be grateful for. And yet…

That thorn of Athos’… That new perspective on his memories… How could he tell Porthos that he understood now, had for many years, but letting himself accept it was beyond his reach.

_I cannot change who I am…_

“After Lebourne, I – Ow!”

“Hold still.” Aramis began to secure the clean bandage.

“After Lebourne,” the words were hissed in discomfort, “I tried to get you to talk about it.”

Aramis remembered that, remembered admiring Porthos’ determination even as it frustrated him. He stepped away from his friend now his work was done.

Porthos got up. “You pushed me away. After a while I realised if I wanted your friendship, I would have to let it go. So I tried. Athos tried… ” He laid his hand against Aramis’ shoulder. “But we never forgot, Aramis.” Porthos sighed. “We planned it, all those years ago, finding Corneille…”

The admission cut through Aramis.

“The only thing that stopped us was knowing you would never forgive us.” He couldn’t meet Aramis’ eyes. “We couldn’t… I can’t stand to lose your friendship. Not then. Not now.”

“Now?”

“Now because…I don’t know how I can look that man in the eye today, knowing what he did and not cut him down where he stands.”

Fear. Aramis could recognise it now. Fear from Porthos and Athos at what they might do…

And what it might cost them.

 

-o0o-

 

D’Artagnan watched Aramis and Porthos talking in the distance as he ate his bread in the silence of Athos’ company. Porthos had been right; Athos had made Aramis’ actions sound like a whore’s. Their friend had a right to his anger and yet...

D’Artagnan remembered Aramis by the well.

Washing away…sin?

…Or something deeper that his friend had yet to realise?

 

-o0o-

 

It was almost noon when they arrived. A coach and horses stood outside the modestly sized house, packed and ready to leave.

A finely liveried servant greeted them and went to fetch his master.

The bishop, when he appeared, was a grey haired, slight man of advancing years. His eyes, however, were sharp and shrewd, quickly scanning the faces of the musketeers before settling on one in particular.

“Aramis.” The bishop greeted.


	2. ...Courage to Change the Things I Can...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've kept it as non-graphic as I can, but there's some ugly scenes ahead.

  
Porthos kept to Aramis’ side as they walked through the lavishly decorated halls of the house.  A couple of paces ahead of them was Corneille, with Athos walking beside him.  The man was nothing like Porthos had imagined.  Corneille was narrow of bone and deficient in muscle, his skin sallow and weathered.  To challenge him to any kind of duel would be laughable.

Aramis’ face was distant.  The younger man had greeted Corneille with all the considerable grace and charm that he possessed but once the man had entered into conversation with Athos, he had fallen silent.

Corneille led them to his study.

“My apologies, gentleman, for the delay,” he said.  “I know that time is of the essence, but I cannot leave without my thesis and I could not trust it to any other hands but my own.  Claude will bring you some refreshment while you wait.”

He had barely finished speaking when a servant entered, carrying a tray of wine and goblets. 

Porthos’ eyes scanned the room while they drank before being drawn to a portrait of two boys, both finely but not richly dressed.  The elder boy was tall and handsome, blond curls set into ringlets and the younger…

Porthos stepped closer for a better look.  “Is that…?”

“Me?”  Aramis’ voice was soft beside him.  “Yes.”

The boy in the portrait looked very young, with a heart shaped face and smooth, plump baby cheeks, staring seriously out at the viewer with huge brown eyes that peeked out from beneath a thatch of dark black curls.  Porthos suppressed a shudder.  Perhaps it was just his imagination but it seemed as if the painter had captured, in Aramis’ eyes, something of the too grown up knowledge he must have possessed by the time this picture had been made. 

“Who’s the boy?”

“Etienne.”

Porthos frowned, caught by the way Aramis spoke the name.

But then the door opened abruptly. 

“Aramis!”

And he turned to see a woman enter.

-o0o-  
  
Marie had once been a fine looking woman and much of that beauty had proved ageless.  Wrinkles marred her mouth and eyes, but the beautiful structure of her high cheek bones and wide set eyes remained largely unchanged. 

Aramis bowed, but kept his head tilted up with a smile.

She offered her hand, which Aramis took and kissed.  “You are every bit the gentleman I remember.”

“Hardly,” Porthos said, “Aramis would have been, what?  Eleven?  Twelve? When you last met.  Not a man at all.”

Aramis allowed none of the frustration and anger that lanced through him to show on his face.  “May I introduce Porthos and Athos of the King’s musketeers?  And our friend, D’Artagnan.”  

His friends greeted Marie with a cold civility that clearly unnerved her, but she was far too polite a host to let her affront show.

The door opened again and this time a boy of no more than ten entered, loaded down with an enormous pile of books that, from the lettering on their thick spines, were written in French and Latin and Spanish.

“Ah, Jean-Baptiste,” Marie said and cupped the back of the boy’s head, “see, you did not miss the musketeers.  Look, here they are!”

The boy grinned in absolute delight as she introduced him to each of them in turn.  He stared up at them in unabashed awe and stuttered hopelessly over his greetings.

“You will forgive him,” Marie said, “it is not every day that one meets one’s heroes” 

Corneille came over and took half of the books.  “My little novice spends far too much time day dreaming about become a musketeer,” he laughed, and then looked meaningfully at Aramis.  “And given that I have already had one protégé run off to Paris to become a soldier, I ought not to be encouraging him.  But you are forgiven, Monsieur Aramis, by virtue of your services in escorting us safely to Paris.”

  
Jean-Baptiste’s mouth opened even more. 

Aramis leaned down and relieved the boy of the remaining books, least he drop them in his shock. 

“Were you really like me?”  Jean asked.

 _“One question:”_ Athos’ words whispered to him, _“the new stable boy, Jacques, who is almost nine and brings you apples from his father’s tree because he knows you like them.  If you knew someone had taken him into their bed, how would that make you feel?”_  
  
-o-  
  
Father Hugues brought him to the library because he could read Spanish and Hugues couldn’t.  Translating the Spanish of his mother into the French of his father was simple enough but nothing he translated held any interest for him.  It was boring.   

Running off through Monsignor Corneille’s gardens had seemed a good idea at the time, but it only led to his being dragged back by his ear, covered in dirt, some hours later and made to recite psalms in Latin. 

And that was even more boring.

The priest had his head in a book at the far end of the library, listening to the psalms with what Aramis discovered, when he skipped a few lines to save time, wasn’t distraction but with a keen ear. 

Boredom and inactivity weighed heavily on Aramis and eventually, he picked up the book he was reading from and began wandering among the shelves.  He weaved around desks, and lockers, ladders, shelves…a globe…

Finally he stopped at the bottom of the library, next to a ladder that seemed to go up as high as his father’s barn.  The top was fixed to highest shelf, which was empty and just about wide and long enough for a child of, well, his size, to lay on it.

Aramis grinned.

He began a psalm that he knew by heart as he hugged the book to his chest and began to climb.  He slid into the space and wriggled over onto his tummy, peering over the edge.  The floor seemed quite far away. 

There was a ridiculous amount of dust up there and he sneezed his way through the rest of the psalm before rolling onto his back, propping his head up against the wall and opening the book.

Psalms followed but there was always something about his little hiding place to distract him: first, he pretended he was sniper on the battle field, then a soldier in his bed, then a spy, then a spider, then a dead man in his coffin…

“Aramis!”

The boy jolted up, knocking the book from his hands so that it slid over the side.  The **_thunk!_** it made as it landed on the ground was truly terrifying.

“ARAMIS!” 

He leaned over the edge and fumbled back in horror at the sight of Father Hugues and Monsignor Corneille standing at the bottom of the ladder. 

“Get down at once!”

His feet slipped on the rungs in his hurry to comply, but he managed to grab the side of the ladder to stop himself falling.  Unfortunately, his own momentum propelled him forward and he found himself dangling from the ladder, legs kicking useless in the air.  The only thing he could do was loosen his grip and let himself slide. 

His hands were torn and burning when he landed in a heap at the men’s feet, but he refused to let the pain show on his face. 

Corneille stared down at him, looming over him like an agent of Satan.  Then he threw back his head and laughed.

  
  
-o-  


Corneille invited them back to the library many times after that, or rather, invited Aramis.  Father Hugues came at first, but then business had called him away.  But Aramis was encouraged to return, to read whatever he chose, on whatever shelf he chose.  He soon found himself working alongside Etienne, the nephew of Corneille’s steward Auguste, helping Corneille in his Spanish translations and learning Latin in return.

His parents were delighted to have found not only an influential patron for their son, but one who was amused by and indulgent of the boy’s wild and restless nature. 

  
Etienne, being fourteen, was less than enthusiastic to be saddled with a seemingly inexhaustible child at first but once he realised the value of Aramis as a lookout on his numerous visits to the stables with one of the maids, he grew fond of the boy.

It was one of those visits that began it all.

Aramis, ever curious, decided to listen in on whatever was so important that Etienne and Manon could only talk about in private.  What he heard…pain?...made him look.

Aramis had seen animals do that before.  But not people. 

And nothing that animals did have made him feel…

He winced and walked away, recognising the heaviness pooling inside him.  He had not long discovered what it meant and more importantly, what he could do with it and how good it felt…

Maybe there was another use for that space on the shelf besides reading.  He decided it was private enough.

It was over a week later that Monsignor Corneille caught him.  
  
-o-  
   
“Read it again.”

“Yes, Monsignor.”  Aramis traced the passage with his finger as he read, but he had long since memorised it.

“Good.”  He said.  “Now that you understand what you did is an affront to God, I will take your confession.”

The boy dutifully confessed touching his own flesh and spilling his seed on the ground.  The Monsignor was very thorough, questioning him on where and when and how and what he did, so that no part of his sin was left unforgiven.

He then dismissed him.  Aramis walked, head bowed low, to the door.

“Aramis?”

The boy looked back.

“I know it is hard for a young man to deny his flesh.”

“Yes, Monsignor.”

“I will do all I can to help you resist temptation.”

“Thank you, Monsignor.”

Corneille smiled, “it is only my Christian duty, after all.”  
  
-o-  
  
The next day, when Corneille ushered him into the library, Marie was there, laughing quietly with Etienne.  The young man looked at her with a devotion that not even Manon-the-maid-in-the-stables inspired.

She got up.  “Monsieur Aramis.”  She held out her hand.  “I understand you are quite the adventurous young man.”

Aramis took it, marvelling at softness of her skin and kissed her knuckles.  She smelt like spring blossom. 

She chuckled, “and quite the gallant as well!”

“Etienne,” Corneille said. “You are not needed today.”

“Monsignor, I thought-” Etienne looked bitterly at Aramis. “That is, Mademoiselle de la Fontanne -”

“-Will no longer require your…help.”

Etienne went red.  “But-”

“Go help your uncle.”  Corneille snapped sharply.   

He got up and made for the door.  “Yes, Monsignor.”  He shot Aramis a look of hate that surprised the boy.

Corneille watched him go and when the door was closed, he brushed his fingers against Marie’s cheeks.  “Aramis,” he said, “I promised to help you yesterday, did I not?”

He nodded.

“Come with us.”  

  
  
-o0o-  


Athos had swallowed his wine in one gulp and had quickly received a refill.  He stood at the back of the room with D’Artagnan at his side, eyes following first Aramis and then Corneille.  The wine, fine and richly bodied, lay warmly on his stomach but in too small a quantity to give any relief. 

Corneille he wanted nothing more than to run through with a blade. Marie would better be served choking and gasping on the end of a rope.

_White linen blowing the breeze, the smell of forget-me-nots, the rattle of the cart as it drew away from under her feet…_

Athos reached for the wine bottle and refilled his goblet himself, glaring at the servant as if daring him to protest.  Wisely, the man did not.  He didn’t part with the bottle.

He knew that D’Artagnan was frowning at him but ignored it, focusing instead on Aramis as the younger man bent to take books from the boy. 

“Were you really like me?”  Jean-Baptiste asked Aramis.

Athos was close enough to hear the noise that Porthos made in the back of his throat.  So, perhaps was Aramis, for the younger man’s cheeks lost some of their colour.  Or maybe he was beginning, at long last, to understand.

“I…too carried books for the Bishop of Longueville,” Aramis said and Athos knew him well enough to hear the strain in the words that he was trying to conceal.

  
  
-o-  


He learned quickly, Marie later said, her face flushed and sweaty.  Corneille had rewarded him with a book, lavishly bound and gilded, that his parents had given pride of place to in the house.  Etienne rewarded him with a black eye and a split lip.  When Corneille found out, he banished Etienne to work in the stables.  The older boy had looked at him with something he would recognise as an adult as bitter resentment. 

“You’ll grow too,” he had hissed.

Days turned into weeks.  Corneille was an excellent teacher and Aramis’ Latin grew fluent and perfect, but not quite as perfect as the other skills he learned, for Marie was prodigious tutor too and clearly loved her work.  And Corneille was strict taskmaster, observing and offering assistance where he could, touching and guiding and often putting his fingers into places in the boy’s body that even his mother never touched.  Aramis didn’t like that quite so much but Corneille would remind him when he protested that this was to help him refrain from sin.  And then he would feel bad for questioning the priest’s kindness.

(And see, the priest smiled, how much Marie enjoys it…)

Marie was a delight to spend time with and she often encouraged him to sit with her and the ladies while the gentlemen were at cards. He soon learned how to talk to them and make them happy.

“Little Aramis,” Estelle said one day, “I believe you will make the finest gentleman in all of France!  It is too much to lose you to the church!”

He bowed down gallantly.

“Aramis,” Marie said and reached out with a finger to raise his chin, “you lower your eyes to no one.”  He stared into her face, still bowing.  “You are a better man, even than the king.”

  
  
-o-  


“You ruined quite a few books, as well, as I recall.”  Corneille said to Aramis.  “Jean-Baptiste is thankfully more respectful.”  Then he turned to Athos.  “My thesis is safely stowed.  I am ready for the journey that lies ahead.”

Athos’ eyes flickered to Aramis.  It was obvious that he was not.

  
  
-o0o-  


Porthos fell into step beside Aramis.  Athos took the younger man’s other side. 

“He’s not what I imagined.”  Porthos said.  “Neither’s she.”

“I am not sure what you expect me to say.”  Aramis said.  “Or do.”

“Aramis –” Athos began.

“You asked me a question, at Lebourne.”

Athos’ eyes were like flint.  “You have an answer?”

Aramis turned to look at Jean-Baptiste, trailing behind them.  “Yes.”

He stopped walking abruptly so that Athos and Porthos left him behind.  They both stopped as soon as they realised but he motioned, slightly, with his head to encourage them on.  They did so, but noticeably slowly, no doubt to keep in earshot.

Jean-Baptiste caught him up and Aramis began walking again.

“How long have you helped the bishop, Jean?”

“Since Easter.”

He felt something inside him ease, although he couldn’t have said what it was.  “Not so long then.”

“No.”

“Do you really want to be a priest?”

The boy looked up at him.  He probably hadn’t been asked that before.  Certainly Aramis never had when he was boy. 

“But you do want to be a musketeer?”

Excitement filled the boy’s face.  “I’m learning to fence.  Monsieur Matte says I’m quite good.”

“Then become a musketeer.”  Aramis told him.  “I am sure you will make a fine one.”

This seemed to make a boy glow.  Then he looked doubtful.  “Do you really think I could?”

“I promise to write a letter of recommendation to the Captain of the musketeers as soon as you are of age.”

Jean’s eyes grew huge.  “Monsieur Treville?”

“Yes.”  Aramis smiled.  “And who knows, I may be captain myself by then.”  Then he stopped walking and knelt.  “But I would like something in return. You have to promise me that you will never come here again.  Give up Corneille’s patronage and concentrate on your fencing lessons.”

“My father will be angry,” Jean said.  “He wants me to be a priest.”

“I’ll wager he wants you to be happy first.  Explain that to him and I’m sure he will understand.  If he doesn’t, appeal to Auguste, Corneille’s steward and he will get word to me at the garrison in Paris.”

Jean-Baptiste frowned, “what could you say to my father to get him to change his mind?” 

“That, I hope, you will never know.”  Aramis sighed.  “But I believe I can make him understand.”  He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.  “If you state your case to your father and mother with the bravery of a musketeer, it may not come to that.”  And truely, Aramis would be praying that it did not, for he did not know what he would say.  Only that he would, if he must.

“I will, sir.”

They walked the last few paces to the carriage and then Aramis turned his attention helping Marie settle inside.  He was aware of Porthos and Athos’ eyes upon him but he chose to ignore them.

  
  
-o0o-  


Aramis pulled himself into his saddle.  He felt tired and sore and weighed down.  He wasn’t used to feeling this way, although he’d certainly experienced it before and much more besides.  Was this how Athos felt, day to day?

He was aware of Porthos watching him.  “I heard what you said to Jean.”  His voice was rough.  “D’Artagnan was right.  You do understand.”

Understand? 

God, yes, for years now but…

He looked back at Jean-Baptiste, jumping and waving goodbye.

…but not quite so clearly, not quite so _sharply_...

“I cannot change who I am, Porthos,” he said and heard the exhaustion in his own voice, “but I can change who Jean-Baptiste will be.”

Then he clicked softly at his horse and began the journey home.


	3. ...And the Wisdom to Know the Difference - Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for huge gap between chapters (the last update was April 2014) It's thanks to a short break at the Eden Project that I have the mental wherewithall for this. I will do my best not to leave it so long for the conclusion.

The carriage trundled on its way. Athos and Porthos were riding ahead, obscured from view by the arch of its roof, but D’Artagnan caught sight of them on occasion when the road turned on a sharp bend.  They appeared to be riding in silence, much as he was by default, for though Aramis’ horse kept pace beside his own, his friend had yet to speak.  It was unsettling. 

Everything about this was unsettling: the strange anger that seemed to simmer inside Athos and Porthos and while D’Artagnan believed Porthos’ words that it was not felt towards Aramis but _for_ Aramis, the frustration they badly concealed over Aramis’ calm was palpable as was their hostility towards the bishop and his mistress.

When the silence became too much, he broke it.  “What happened at Labourne?”

Aramis offered him a smile.  “For many years I would have said hubris.”

That wasn’t an answer.  “And now?”

Aramis’ eyes fixed on the carriage ahead of them.  “Insight.”

“Neither of those answers my question.”

His friend looked at him.  “It was a long time ago.”

“You said if I knew I would be angry.”  D’Artagnan said, remembering their conversation by the well.  “I won’t get angry.”  Such assurances sounded young even to his own ears but he knew that Aramis had too much grace to point that out.

“There is very little to tell.”

“Then it won’t take long,” he told him.

Aramis tipped up his hat, wiped his brow with the back of his glove.  “We were guarding the king’s hunting party,” he began as he once more settled his hat in place.  “I was new to the regiment, although not to soldiering, and I did not guard my tongue as I ought.  I spoke of Corneille and his mistress when I should not.  Athos and Porthos and Philippe, I believe, looked upon my recollection with…”  He paused, clearly holding back his original word, “less favourably than I had ever considered.  Athos challenged me directly and Porthos…”  He sighed.  “I was young and we were not the friends we are now.  I mistook their concern for me as anger and it only inspired my own.  But time passed and I hoped the matter forgotten when we became friends.” 

D’Artagnan had felt a knot ease in his stomach as his friend spoke as if this confidence had pulled down the final barrier to being accepted as one of them.  “Aramis,” he said, “that still doesn’t tell me what Corneille and his mistress did.” 

 _I look forward_ , Porthos had told him, _to Aramis gutting them both like fish_ when he understood what they had done to him and yet could it really be so bad if Aramis himself did not think so?

He tried a different approach, “Corneille was your patron?” 

“Corneille was more than just my patron.”  The reply sounded easy and yet D’Artagnan understood that it was not.  “He was… He and his mistress took me to their bed more times than I can count.”  Aramis did not look at him and for that he was grateful.  He would not trust his face not to betray his shock.  “I respected Corneille and I loved Marie and I truly believed the time we spent together was good.”

Believed.

Past tense.

“I enjoyed much of what we did and I have been thankful, many times, for the skills they taught me.”

D’Artagnan felt his face grow hot with embarrassment even as his ears caught the _much_ and his stomach twisted. 

“I was a boy and eager to please.” He continued. “I did not question their actions.” 

“Until Athos did,” D’Artagnan said, “at Labourne.”

“Yes.  But I did not fully understand the weight of it until I met Jean-Baptiste.”  He finally turned tired brown eyes on D’Artagnan.  “I was not the first, D’Artagnan.” He admitted quietly.  “I almost certainly was not the last.”

Revulsion shot through him.  “You think Jean-Baptiste-?”

“No. Not yet.”  Aramis replied and there was a sharp edge to his voice.  “And Jean-Baptiste will not be under Corneille’s influence anymore.”  He sounded certain of that and yet his next words were uttered almost as if he were speaking to himself.  “Beyond that, I have not considered…”

Ahead of them, the carriage was navigating a sharp bend in the road and D’Artagnan could see Porthos looking back at them.  His face was like granite, eyes hard as flint. 

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Aramis meet his friends gaze head on and nod almost imperceptibly. Porthos returned the gesture before straightening in his saddle.

D’Artagnan looked across at his friend.  “Aramis-”

“It looks like rain on the horizon.”  Aramis said as he settled back in his saddle, “we should stop to rest before we reach it.”

Frustration at the sudden end of the conversation roiled in D’Artagnan’s gut and he had to fight to push it down.  Aramis had borne enough of his friend’s ill feelings about the bishop.  It was unfair to add to it. His friend had answered his questions.  He should expect nothing more.

But Aramis had been right.  D’Artagnan was angry.

Because riding ahead of him, sitting in the luxury of the carriage, were two of vilest people in France. 

And still, Aramis did nothing…

  
-o0o-

  
The small clearing in the woods where they stopped to rest the horses and eat was cool and shaded, thick with foliage that would provide excellent shelter if the clouds caught up with them.

D’Artagnan’s eyes fell on Corneille as soon as the man stepped from his carriage.  His hand gripped his sword in readiness to pull it from his scabbard before he had even registered what he was doing.  Athos immediately clasped his wrist, stilling his hand with fingers that seemed to be forged out of iron, and ordered him to see to the horses, his tone sharp.  When he caught his friend’s eye, he saw the glint of ice in them.  He obeyed without question and began leading the animals to where they could drink.

“Aramis told you.”  Athos said and it was not a question. 

“Yes.”

“Your anger does you credit,” Athos said as he fell into step beside D’Artagnan.  “But in exercising it, you will get in line, after Porthos and myself.”

“And Aramis.”

“And Aramis.”  Athos agreed before walking away.  D’Artagnan watched him leave.  Aramis had not had time to tell Athos that he had confided in D’Artagnan and yet he had known.  He wondered if he would ever learn to read his friends that well in return.

  
-o0o-

  
Porthos fell into his usual role of collecting wood, welcoming the opportunity to be as far as possible away from Corneille and Marie.  He did not trust his tongue and his hand itched for his sword whenever he was in their presence. 

As soon as he found a good spot for a fire, he began to build one, laying stones and kindling and tinder.

“You always were a fine fisherman.”  Marie’s voice drifted through the trees and Porthos’ hands stilled on his flint.  “I see the years have only improved your skills.”

“Athos chose this river well.”  Aramis’ reply was light, seemingly untroubled.  “We will eat well today.”

“You will not share our hamper?  I had more than enough prepared for you and for your comrades.”

Porthos’ lip curled in disgust at the thought of breaking bread with two such people and struck hard on his flint.  The dry wisps of cotton he had pushed under the pile of dry wood began to smoulder.

“We are soldiers, used to soldiers fare.  That is more than enough for us.”  There was less lightness to Aramis’ tone now.

“You were never meant for a soldier’s fare, Aramis, even as a small boy.  You have too much nobility in your heart.” There was a flirtatious note in her tone.  “You must eat with us.  I have your favourite – ratatouille – and you cannot deny me to pleasure of your company.”

“I cannot recall ever denying you any pleasure that you asked of me.” 

Porthos’ stomach clenched sickly and knotted even harder at the sound of Marie’s amused reply: “No, I do not believe that you did.”

“But I am afraid I must now.”  There was a sharp edge to his words.

Porthos looked up from his fire, squinted through the thick tangle of tree branches and bushes, but his view of his friend was limited.  Overhearing a conversation was one thing, it was another to actively spy on them and yet…

Porthos stood up, moved silently closer and peered through the gap between the leaves.  Aramis stood in the river, naked to the waist, with Marie sitting on a rock a few feet away.  She did not look pleased.

“Your comrades appear to be good and honest people.  I do not think they would mind sparing you.”

 _We mind very much_ , Porthos thought.

“Even so, I must decline.”

“Aramis…” She stood up, stepped closer to the bank before reaching out to caress Aramis’ face.  “I had hoped to learn what sort of man you became.  I knew you would be handsome, _more_ than the handsome of other men, and I see clearly that is so.  But you had the potential to be so much more than that and I want to know that man.  Please do not disappoint me.”

Something that might have been confusion and doubt flicked across Aramis’ face.  Then it slowly faded way.  “You wish to admire your handiwork, Mademoiselle, and congratulate yourself on a job well done.”  There was anger – anger, at last – in his voice and Porthos felt a rush of relief to hear it.  “But I have no wish to sit with you and have my life and my accomplishments and even my mistakes to be viewed as all another’s work.”

“That is not-” 

“What you changed in me, when I was a small and trusting child, I cannot unchange.”  Aramis began to wade out of the river.  “I know it now for the abhorrence that it was and I will do my duty and escort you to Paris and I will defend you with my life if I have to, but I will not eat with you or share your company.”  He picked up his shirt and pulled it on.  “I’m sorry.”  He said, because he was a gentleman.

“I’m sorry too.”  The words were snapped out.

Aramis picked up the fish by their gills and looked sadly at her.  “No, I do not believe that you are.”

Porthos ducked quickly back to the fire, getting there to find the smouldering had gone out just as Aramis rounded the thick knot of bushes.

Aramis sat down, took out his knife and began cutting into the fish.

 _Gutting them like fish_ , Porthos thought and remembered the look on Marie’s face as Aramis walked away.

It was a start.

  
-o0o-

  
Eating was a sombre affair with the musketeers set away from the bishop and his mistress, who were being waited on by their footman and coach driver, Aramis ate little, Athos drunk much and Porthos talked enough for all three to fill the void, and D’Artagnan was relieved once they were on the road again. 

Engaging Aramis in conversation was surprisingly easy, given his quietness as they ate, and they spoke of Treville, of D’Artagnan’s farm, a little about Constance and much about the cardinal but the conversation never strayed where D’Artagnan would be grateful of it going: to Corneille and Marie.  He wanted to tell Aramis that he wasn’t angry, that nothing he had confided had changed how much he admired and respected him and that however much he wanted to hurt Corneille and Marie for what they did, he would not make any move that Aramis did not want.

But the opportunity never came and he was learning that his way of saying things rashly often caused more harm than good.  And there was more than enough steel in Porthos’ eyes, when he glanced back at them, to make him hold his tongue.

Eventually their conversation lapsed into prolonged silences as the aches of the long ride began to make themselves known and it was during one of these that D’Artagnan thought he heard a horse whinny behind them.  But when he turned there was no one and something nervous shifted in his belly.

However the hours passed without incident.  Dusk beckoned and the same unease came over D’Artagnan as they dismounted their horses outside of an inn but again the road was clear and the horizon empty of followers. 

He was tired and grateful of the stew handed out by the innkeeper and more grateful still to be assigned a room with Athos, who likely wouldn’t spend more than a few hours in it, and he could sleep and think in peace. Aramis too retired early, leaving only Porthos at the card table and Athos at the bar.  Marie and Corneille had chosen to go straight to their room and D’Artagnan had not seen them since they had stepped out of their carriage.

He hovered a long moment outside of Aramis’ room but from the soft mumble leaking through the door, it sounded as if his friend was praying.

And truly, what could he say?

He sighed and went to bed.

  
-o0o-

  
“The life of musketeer is a strange choice for one of so obvious noble bearing.”

Athos’ eyes flicked up at Corneille’s voice.  The man stood over Athos’ table, dressed in his pious robes, and wearing a placid and mild expression, looking for all the world to see like the benevolent master the innkeeper had taken him for when he had requested good rooms and board for all his party.

“You must have quite the tale to tell.”

“We all have tales,” Athos replied, “some more interesting than others.”  He took a swallow of ale but even the foul burn of the liquid in his stomach couldn’t override the disgust the man’s presence caused.

Corneille took the seat opposite Athos without being invited.  “Perhaps I find the tales of those who abandon all to become a musketeer more interesting than most.”  He said.  “Aramis’ own decision surprised me greatly.  He would have made a fine priest.”

“Aramis-” He bit the words back.  “Aramis’ decision is his own business.”

Corneille smiled thinly.  “You hide your dislike of the clergy badly, Monsieur Athos.”

“You are wrong.  I have a great tolerance for the clergy.”  Athos replied.  “It is some of its members that I dislike.  Badly.”

“The musketeer’s dislike of the cardinal is well known, but unless I am mistaken we have not met.”  Another thin smile, “but perhaps we have.”

“Believe me when I tell you: you would remember if we had.”

Corneille chuckled at that, clearly amused, and Athos’ hand tightened around the bottle of ale.  He remembered talking with Porthos, years ago now, about finding Corneille and ending his life. 

“Am I to know where this dislike of me comes from?  Surely not Aramis?”

No, not from Aramis and the injustice of that still clawed at Athos’ belly, because if ever there was a man who had cause to hate and disparage Corneille’s name, it was Aramis.

“As I said, we all have tales.”  Athos told him.  “And in telling his, Aramis also told me yours.  It is not a tale I should wish to ever hear again and one I would gladly see you hang for.”

The amusement fell from Corneille’s face. 

Athos leaned forward.  “Tell me, because I have often wondered: how many of them were there?”  He asked and the words churned his innards.  He thought of Aramis, thoughtlessly trading himself for a room or for coin for a contest, because in his own worth that was skill on par with his abilities with a musket or in battle and could be sold.  This man had taught him that.  “How many children did you take to your bed?”

Corneille’s face blanched white.  “You would do well to remember to whom you speak!”  The angry snap drew the glances of other patrons of the inn, including Porthos, who got to his feet.

“As you would do well to remember whom you are with,” Athos said, “it is a long and dangerous and…empty…road to Paris.”

“That almost sounds like a threat, monsieur.”

“I merely state facts.”

Porthos came over, “problem?”  He asked and Athos could see just how much he wanted there to be a problem, how much he longed to solve it with his own bare hands…

But as satisfying as that would be, there were laws, there were witnesses…

“No.”  He got up.  “If you will excuse us, we should have retired to bed some time ago.”

“What was that about?”  Porthos asked, as soon as they were far enough away.  “Or need I ask?”

  
-o0o-

  
Aramis had slept badly, although he had feigned it well enough when Porthos came to bed and spoke his name as if he wanted to talk.  And they did have much to talk about, Aramis knew.  He was aware that his conversation with Marie had been overheard, had been aware of Porthos’ presence even as he spoke to her, but he had no desire to go over it.  He had confessed his thoughts in his prayers, asked for both forgiveness and guidance and had found some serenity in doing so and then he just wanted to sleep.

But many sleepless hours followed and at dawn, he rose and went to prepare the horses.  He should not have been surprised that Porthos followed him, but his friend’s sudden appearance startled him.

“Porthos.”

“I heard you tossing and turning all night,” he offered a smile, “I think you kept me awake more than Athos’ snoring usually does.”  He paused.  “I hoped you might want to talk.”

Aramis picked up his saddle and felt the weight of his sleepless night bearing down on him.  “There is very little that has not been said.”  He could hear the exhaustion in his own voice and saw by the concern in Porthos’ eyes that he had heard it too.

“Not by you, Aramis.”  Porthos pointed out.  “Me, Athos…even D’Artagnan…we’ve all talked and argued and…  You haven’t really said much.”

Aramis saddled his horse and busied himself with the fastenings.  A long moment of silence stretched until Porthos sighed and began to prepare his own horse.

“I heard what you said to Marie.”  Porthos said as he worked.  “I was almost cheering.”

“I fear my words were cruel.”

“They should be.”

Aramis stroked his horses flank and thought of the pain in Marie’s eyes; of the…revulsion…he had felt.  It had been like a glimpse down a road he wasn’t sure he wanted to ever go down.

“Aramis,” Porthos said.  “She deserved it and more.” He came closer.  “You know that.”  He looked Aramis in the eye.  “You protected Jean-Baptiste so I _know_ you know that.”

He did, of course he did but… “I must admit I was waiting for myself to feel angry and now that I am I do not know what to do with it.”

“I know what I’d do with it.”  Porthos said bluntly and then offered a “sorry.” 

But it did bare thinking on, because any other injustice or slight or dishonour would be met with his blade, and yet this… 

“You’ll know.”  Athos’ voice came from the doorway.  “When the time comes.” 

“And we’ll be at your side,” D’Artagnan added, from his place at Athos’ shoulder, “whatever you decide.”

Porthos lay a hand on his shoulder.  “One for all…” he reminded him.

Aramis drew a breath and completed, “and all for one.”

  
-o0o-

  
Athos switched with D’Artagnan and took his place beside Aramis behind the carriage.  Although he had little interest in talking, he could not explain his need to ride beside his friend.  D’Artagnan acquiesced easily and Porthos’ eyes betrayed his annoyance at not requesting a change himself. 

It was midmorning when a gunshot split the air without warning. One of the horses pulling the carriage whinnied out in alarm and tried to bolt.  The driver fought to bring the startled mare under control as D’Artagnan dismounted to grab the horses bridle.  Porthos quickly joined him as the horse’s alarm was infectious and its carriage-mate was beginning to whinny and stomp in fright.

“Get clear of the carriage!”  Athos yelled.

Corneille and Marie leapt from the carriage just as the horse D’Artagnan was struggling with bucked and kicked back, shattering the wood of the cabin and by the animal’s anguished cry, its bone as well.  The horse tumbled down, dragging D’Artagnan with it and landing half on top of him. Athos dismounted and hurried to free the boy before he was injured. 

Two more shots split the air.  The footman fell dead, his body slumping forward onto the carriage horses.  The noise and the scent of blood alarmed the animals even more and they both fought harder against their restraints.  Out of the corner of his eye, Athos saw Aramis hastily reloading.  He spared a second to follow his friend’s line of sight to see two men, with pistols raised riding out of the trees.  A third man lay dead in the grass behind them.  But then he forced himself to focus only on his task.  He had to rescue D’Artagnan and quickly, before he was trampled to death.

The other horse was panicking now, snorting and foaming, its hooves stamping wildly and all Porthos could do was pull out his knife and begin slicing through the leather to release the horse before it injured him or D’Artagnan. He succeeded and wacked the horse’s rump to encourage it to bolt away just as Athos finally pulled D’Artagnan free.

Another shot and Athos looked up just in time to see one of the men fall from his horse.  But the other…

The final man had reached the bishop and his mistress.  He dismounted and backhanded Corneille to the ground before pulling Marie towards him.  He laid a sword to her throat as she whimpered in fear.

“Back!” The man snapped at them.  “Get back.”

Athos gestured to his comrades to remain still.  

Aramis lowered his musket, recognition in his eyes.  “Etienne?”

The man frowned, confused and obviously scared.  “Aramis?”


End file.
